A Soldier's March
by maxn98
Summary: Andrei Toufexis is a squad leader fighting for his homeland in Stalingrad. Captain Elias Nevski is Andrei's commanding officer, who is more interested in satisfying his lust for blood than fighting to win the war. Will these men clash in this WW2 epic?
1. Chapter 1

SEPTEMBER 10, 1942 – 11:45 P.M

Time is a fluid entity. It ebbs and flows. It slips through fingers and slides through the hourglass. You can kill it, or try to turn it back. Many try to save it or spare some of it. We can waste it, watch it fly, and never have enough of it.

But in the end it is just an illusion, a concept created by man to count his hours and days spent in our earthly pursuits. It is a marker from which we can look back or look forward, identifying what once was and what is yet to be. It is invisible and intangible, impossible to explain, but it grounds us so we know where we are in the universe and without it there is no past and no future, only now, the moment, and we are nothing but specks floating through eternity.

I have no sense of time. I have a pocket watch, despite its impracticality during warfare, but this has never seemed to help me. In my mind, the loss of food, water, sleep, and heat were nothing in comparison to the loss of time, which made the drive into Stalingrad unbearable.

Private Nikita sat beside me, contemplating the coming assault, while Durasov and Belinski shared rags and oil to clean their rifles before me. Sokolov sat the edge of the compartment, his legs swaying back and forth as they dangled about in the breeze. Colonel Lev Voronin, a barrel-chested man from Moscow, sat beside the driver in the front, while General Dimitri Badanov and Captain Elias Nevski sat together beside Nikita, drawing out maps of the city in preparation for the assault.

We had sent the children to watch the roads ahead in case of a German counter-attack. Rumor has it that the Germans are planning an assault into the city, but my squad and I believe this to be what it is…a rumor.

But General Badanov did not.

After arranging several pieces of Intel his scouts had collected since the beginning of the assault, Badanov managed to find which section in the German line was the weakest; Army Group Black had been on the line since the very start of the campaign, taking mortar and machine gun fire, and suffering from poorly executed charges and foolish military leaders taking the best men off the line to go fight in other battles. So Badanov decided that this would be the best point of attack, rounding up an entire company of shock troopers and loading them all onto trucks despite the negative criticism from his fellow generals. He took Colonel Lev Voronin as his second-in-command and Nevski as Colonel Voronin's subordinate in the field.

Nevski was the toughest and most ruthless man in the entire regiment. He believed a platoon of his shock troopers would be enough for the assault, but was ignored by Badanov, who was swept with the greed that came from the thought that, if the assault was a success, the rest of the German army would be severely flanked, would most likely break and route, and the battle of Stalingrad would have been won by the Soviets because of his "genius" planning. He suspected that after his victory, he would be held in high esteem by Stalin and be given high military honors. Nevski, on the other hand, thought that revealing such a large force would be foolish, as the Germans would see this and have enough time to reinforce their positions. So, after much reasoning, Nevski convinced Colonel Voronin to change the time of the assault from eight in the morning to midnight.

So now we sat, a blanket of stars unveiled above us. We had passed the ruined edges of city—which had received the majority of the artillery fire from the Germans, despite the fact that their armies had already moved deep into the city—leaving Stalingrad far behind only a couple of moments ago. Driving up an upward slope, I found myself resting my rifle on my side so that I did not slide down the bench.

Nikita drew out a cigarette, resting his own rifle aside and offering his pack to me. "Hey, Andrei, would you like a cig?"

"No thank you, comrade." I replied. "Tobacco fuses your bodily fluids, makes it harder to fight. Same with alcohol…it messes you up. I wouldn't want to make things too easy for the fascists, would I?"

Belinski chuckled. "If we had more people with that kind of mindset in this army, comrade, the Germans wouldn't fear us." He leaned in at the sight of my confusion. "I read in a letter I pocketed from a dead German that we are, quote, "No ordinary troopers, fighting on the whim of blood lust and to satisfy their cannibalistic natures. I fear I will not only be killed in this battle, but stripped of my heart, liver, skin, and limbs to be served as the Soviet's next meals. May the Führer show mercy and save me from this hellhole." I believe that if we didn't fight with crazed expressions, we'd have a harder time fighting them, as they would think us normal human beings."

"I'm going to take a guess and say that you're overthinking it, comrade."

He laughed and Nikita slipped his pack of cigarettes back into his breast pocket, taking his rifle and resting it on his lap.

Suddenly, a squadron of jets soared up overhead and, to all of our amazement, began to take fire. We started to count the ones that were destroyed, watching as they plummeted down to Earth. After every two or so, I would lose become distracted by something else and lose count, so my numbers were always ten times smaller than my comrades'. I did, however, manage to deduce what types of planes they were, which the majority of my squad could not. They were IL-2 Sturmoviks, good and feisty planes.

Too bad they had to be used for war.

After a few moments of intense fire mirrored by the stars and the clouds that were hung from the nighttime sky, the fighters broke off and retreated back to the city.

The Germans began to open fire on us, with both mortars and machine guns. Amidst the chaos, our truck swerved to the left, coming to a complete stop. Nevski jumped from his seat, unlocking the chain hooked around the gate and opening it up. Slinging his submachine gun over his shoulder, he waved his arms in the air and screamed.

"Get out of the truck! Get out of the truck! Push your way up the hill and send death to the German invader!"

We gave a chorused shout, "Ura!" and charged out from the compartment, speeding through a hail of bullets and explosions. The Germans had fixed positions built into the side of the hill, barbed wire strung up on pillboxes fitted behind a row of makeshift trenches. Mortars, artillery, and anti-tank weapons fired down onto them, assisted by tremendous machine gun fire. Despite this, we pushed forward, taking heavy casualties as we advanced. I distinctively remember firing my rifle at a German that climbed up out of the trench to throw a grenade. I watched as the bullet slammed into his temple and blew out a chunk of his face, and the grenade he had primed dropped down behind him and exploded at the feet of three of his comrades.

We shoved ourselves into the trenches, bayonets fixed and grenades primed, and took the lives of several German soldiers. Elias took a bayonet he had brought from his home in Moscow and began his slaughter of the helpless pig soldiers, who ran in fright of his terrifying weapon. I ordered my men to assault one of the pill-boxes, ordering Belinski and Nikita to head around its flank while Durasov and I primed our grenades.

The Germans climbed up out of the pillbox at the sight of our assault, raising their weapons and covering their escape. I brought one of them down with a pop from my rifle, while Durasov tossed his grenade, killing the rest upon impact. After pulling the bodies into a pile and stripping them of anything of value, we headed back down the hill.

I watched, helpless, as Voronin ordered the bodies and fortifications burned while weapons and ammo were scavenged. We took seventeen Germans prisoner, but only nine were kept alive to be interrogated.

With all of this done and the prisoners were all loaded onto the remaining trucks, Nevski ordered us onto what little space was left on the trucks, to return to the city and help the fighting there. Later, I would learn that half of the Germans taken prisoner were later executed by firing squad, while the rest were set loose and hunted down by the war dogs.

It is these little facts that I have decided to write to you, diary, for war is hell. But that is not the half of it, for war is mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War can make you a man; war can make you dead.

The truths are contradictory. It can be argued, for instance, that war is grotesque. But in truth war is also beauty. For all its horror, you can't help but gape at the awful majesty of combat. You stare out at tracer rounds unwinding through the dark like brilliant red ribbons. You crouch in ambush as a cool, impassive moon rises over the nighttime streets. You admire the fluid symmetries of troops on the move, the great sheets of metal-fire streaming down from a fighter jet, the illumination rounds, and the orange plume of a grenade exploding. It's not pretty, exactly. It's astonishing. It fills the eye. It commands you. You hate it, yes, but your eyes do not. Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has the aesthetic purity of absolute moral indifference—a powerful, implacable beauty.

To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. Though it's odd, you're never more alive than when you're almost dead. You recognize what's valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what's best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost.

In war you lose your sense of the definite, hence your sense of truth itself, and therefore it's safe to say what I say right now is fiction.

SEPTEMBER 21, 1942 – 6:00 P.M

General Badanov has left us today for a meeting in Moscow.

He has given Elias, who has given me, strict orders to hold an important inter-section that homes both a coal mine and two hotels—which we have been using extensively as over watch positions on the Germans, who foolishly try to make their way down the road. We let them do this…let them set up positions inside the houses and bars that stand on either sides of the two interjecting roads. Then we wait until the night after and slit all of their throats as they sleep, leaving them for the next patrol to find dead on the floor.

It is strange what one man can do to another; what a German man can do to a Slavic man. But that's all this war is, a mass genocide of both races.

Colonel Voronin came to my squad with two men carrying weapons and ammo, as well as other supplies. We, sitting there in a dusty corner atop the roof of a three story apartment complex, took the provisions and continued to watch the road. I do not like this guerrilla warfare. I believe in a fair fight—not to the extremes of standing in a line of thirty-some men with fixed bayonets and muskets—but more than ambushing the enemy, popping off a few shots, and then running away only to come back later and do it all over again. Voronin says that the Germans are focusing their attacks on the other side of town, but that they have also been sending armored patrols to our sector.

"Stay vigilante and keep alert, comrades." Voronin said. "Though the generals have lost interest in us, I think they'll be sending some tanks our way, so make sure you keep the guns and anti-tanks ready."

We all nod and Voronin leaves.

Belinski and Nikita begin to share a cigarette as Durasov takes out a pack of cards to play Preferans with Sokolov and I. We agree on playing three rounds, as the sun has begun to fade into distance, hiding behind the thick clouds hovering in the early autumn sky.

SEPTEMBER 22, 1942 – 6:00 A.M

I lost nearly fifty rubles in that card game.

I went to bed with a hot head and an empty wallet, waking up the next morning with a persistent headache.

Sokolov woke up with a burning hole in his pocket, winning over a hundred and fifty rubles between Durasov, Belinski, and I, and two clips of ammo from Nikita, who ran out of money quick into the game. Captain Nevski came up to our position and told me to take one of my men and man a machine gun nest made of a ruined car and barbed wire.

I decided to take Sokolov as revenge for winning the game, despite how bad a shot he was and how angry he was after I chose him. But that's what he gets for winning.

Over the past month or so, we've stocked up on stolen German weapons as our own begin to dwindle in supply. The MG-42, a German universal machine gun, has seemed to become the most common. We've used them to such extents that I have caught the sight of them more often than the standard SG-43 Goryunov sub-machine gun (the successor to the much older PN M1910 heavy machine gun. Personally, I could care less what weapons we use, so long as they get the job done right.

While the remainder of my squad stayed up on the roof, Sokolov and I made our ways to the nest, relieving fellow soldiers Antonov and Letlev, who had been manning the gun since we'd been deployed onto the intersection. They were both covered in soot and bleeding in several places, probably caused by the several attacks coordinated by the Germans. The pair was relieved to see us, wishing us luck and handing us their helmets, which they had filled with about a dozen belts of ammo. I took the helmets while Sokolov positioned the gun on the hood of the car, taking precise care to make sure the barb wire went over the barrel so that it didn't shoot it and send a ricochet back on them. Sokolov was smart like that, he was smart with weapons.

"Do you really believe the Germans will attack us, comrade?" he asked me.

I sighed. "It doesn't really matter what I believe, comrade. I'm not a German. I don't possess their way of thinking—their intellect. I dropped out of school when I was fifteen, so I have no gift for strategy. What about you? If you're that smart with weapons, you must be smart at something else besides card games."

"I'm good with numbers." Sokolov replied after a moment of thinking.

I sat down in the ditch behind the car and tried to relax. Sokolov, on the other hand, kept his eye on our task. He peered down the sights to the MG-42, watched the other end of the road, and kept checking our recon binoculars. I remained completely still, kicking my legs up onto the edge of the ditch and placing my helmet on my chest. Though I would prefer to be stationed high in the safety of the apartment complex's roof, I was determined to make the best out of my situation and act as if I _was_ up there.

Later, Commissar Pavelonva, our company's political officer, came around and gave his weekly "morale" speech. This mainly consisted of descriptions on the weakness of the Germans, our own strength, how we cannot fail, how Stalin has given us this great honor and must fight to our last breath to see his wishes prevail, and that, by the end of this fight, there would be mountains upon mountains of dead German bodies lined up around the city gates. After this, he passed around packs of cigarettes and unloaded a truck's worth of ammo and supplies to aid the company in our fight. Afterward, he climbed up into the back of the truck and left, informing us that he had urgent business near the center of town. He also warned us that, "The Germans are all around. Keep your eyes peeled, comrades. I shall return."

And he was gone.

Belinski came down to our position and passed around a ration of rum, telling us not to tell Nevski about it, as he would probably shoot us all.

"Enjoy, comrades."

We covered him as he crossed the street and entered one of the buildings, leaving Sokolov and I alone in the crisp, cool weather of the early fall. I do not know how long, but we sat there for a long time, just waiting for something to happen. Even as the temperatures dropped as the sun began to set, we sat there, doing nothing until we were relieved by Nikita and Durasov.

Belinski always seemed to get out of the dangerous jobs, jobs that required work, or just, simply, any jobs in particular. That was what was strange about him, but that was what made him interesting. That is one of the few reasons why I call him "friend."

SEPTEMBER 30, 1942 – 12:00 P.M

An entire squad was slaughtered by a mortar strike today. Antonov, Letlev, Arseni, all of First Squad. Some of them were close friends of mine. I must remain head-strong; I cannot let the Germans get to me. I am scared. My family has fled from Stalingrad and I fear I will never see them again. We've been stuck on the roof of this building for too long now. Way too long now.

SEPTEMBER 31, 1942 – 3:45 P.M

Heard a loud scream this morning followed closely by a big explosion. I have pondered for hours to what it was, as it sounded neither male nor feminine. Nikita and I have made a list of suggestions to what it might have been.

Belinski thinks it was a little girl.

A couple of minutes ago, we were bypassed by an armored patrol. I counted twenty-one troops, three dogs, and four Tiger I tanks. Though my squad has begun to go over why they wished the patrol had spotted us; they wanted to fight, show the Germans that we were tough and not cowardly ambushers. Nevski came to us later, stating that those troopers were members of the Waffen-SS and we would probably have been slaughtered like pigs. Nice. I'm glad our commanding officer has complete and total confidence in our fighting power. I've known Nevski since the beginning of the war, but recently he's been coming off as a bit of an ass.

NOVEMBER 1, 1942 – 2:10 P.M

I was born in July 23, 1925 in Stalingrad, USSR. I'm a squad leader in the Red Army. Before this war I was a factory worker that was forced to work 12 hours a day along with others in collective factories. Stalin made it seem like it was a worker's paradise, while us the workers saw it as hell. We were fools to believe communism would work; now we suffer from our mistake.

I was a fool to volunteer in the armed forces.

If anyone should find this diary, remember me. Remember my story. Because I promise you, it is a story worth telling.

9


	2. Chapter 2

OCTOBER 19, 1942 – 1:00 A.M

It has been raining for a long time—for about two weeks now—but, today, I have seen the first signs of the winter snow. We were forced to displace from the roof as it started to collapse from the weight of the white powder, setting up a series of foxholes around the road. I think this is a foolish move, as we are now vulnerable to the freezing cold temperatures and to any air attack from the fascists.

I believe the snow shall be the end of us; it shall slow us down, make it harder for us to move our limited artillery, supplies, and guns. It will make it harder to communicate with one another, as the snow will weigh down on our radio lines and freeze up the wires. Soon, when we try and make contact with other forces, all we will hear in response is static. It's a strange, irritating sound, like someone was crumbling up a roll of tin.

I've been fighting in this war since the very beginning, all the way from the action in Moscow to the counter-offensive in Kharkov, and I have yet to see a fight that has proved too much for my sanity.

With luck, this one won't either. But its chances have become very slim.

Today is Sunday, the usual day of rest in my household, but a day of work for Stalin's finest. The XO of the main army contacted us today, informing us that we are to embark at once for the lines. This was, of course, not received with cheerful reception. But, despite this, we all got our kits ready and formed up into a loose column formation.

We started marching at 2 o'clock in the afternoon and, at about three, an order was passed down for my company to deploy to the right of the main lines and dig in on the south bank of a railroad cutting. We deployed and started to dig in, but as the soil around the cut was more like chalk, we only managed to make only two dozen shallow holes.

While we were digging, the Germans opened fire with their artillery. The range was perfect, and about twelve shells at a time began bursting in line directly over our vulnerable heads. All of us, except for Nevski, fell flat on our faces, frightened and surprised; but after a while we stood up and looked over the rough bulwark we had set up. We could see nothing, but soon turned our attention to the two that had been wounded and the five that had been killed.

We could see a lot of movement coming from the buildings ahead, as well as the thunderous booms sprouting from both rifles and machine guns. I know the fascists are planning something, I just don't know what.

The Germans attacked in great masses on our left flank, but were beaten back by another company. A platoon of German troopers crossed our front about 800 yards to the right, and we opened fire on them. We hit a few, but the fact that we were doing something definite improved our moral immensely, and took away a lot of our anxiety.

The artillery fire from the Germans remained very heavy, but was dropping behind us on a friendly battery. Captain Nevski, who had stayed in the open all the time, had taken a couple of men to help get the wounded away from the battery behind us. He returned about 6:30 p.m., when the firing had died down a bit, and told us the battery had been blown to bits.

I was then sent with my squad to an outpost to man a signal box at a level crossing, and found it was being used as a clearing station for wounded.

One man was in a very bad way, and kept shrieking out for somebody to bring a razor and cut his throat, and two others died almost immediately. I was going to move a bundle of hay when someone called out, "Look out, comrade. There's a severed hora in there." I saw a leg completely severed from its body, and suddenly felt very sick and tired.

The German rifle fire started again and an artillery-man to whom I was talking was shot dead. I was sick then. Nothing much happened during the night, except that one man spent the time kissing a string of rosary beads, and another swore practically the whole night.

OCTOBER 20, 1942 – 5:34 P.M

It has been a cold, wet day today, and due to the unstable soil, we were forced to move out from the railroad cut. Nevski told us to rest in an abandoned school in northern Stalingrad while he and 4th squad went out to find targets for our mortar teams.

After testing our telephone lines and receiving the "OK" from the stations in communication with us, we began to settle down and await the arrival of Captain Nevski and his men.

We had been given several food and drinking rations, but most of them were to be given to the wounded, so the majority of us went on with empty stomachs. I turned on the radio as to calm the men's nerves with lively tunes—and it worked, as the men began to sing along and tap to the rhythm. Over the course of a month and a half, my company has lost the majority of its troops, and many more now lay dying on the floor of a bombed school. I wanted them to at least be happy before they passed on. No man has gone without a scar and the wounded and dying could easily blend in amongst the crowd. I stood from my seat, drawing out the two packs of cigarettes I kept in my breast and hip pockets. I then proceeded to pass the cigarettes around, making sure that every man wounded or not, got one.

The Germans have begun to ease their way through the city, leaving a tight grip on every street they take. Death and destruction has become the fascists' odor, their treads leaving trails of terror and misery amongst both the people of Stalingrad and the men of the Red Army. Though the enemy moves at the pace of malaises, it has become harder to keep them at bay. Their morale ascends up and into the heavens while ours holds it breath and plunges down into the water.

A platoon of Germans came upon our position today, a pair of tanks rolling in behind them. Both rifles and explosive shells slammed into us, inevitably blowing away chunks of brick, stone, and flesh. I ordered my squad to man their machine guns and open fire on the infantry, leaving the tanks for the men with the rocket launchers. Durasov and Belinski manned one of our two machine guns, while Sokolov and Nikita manned the other. I ordered "open fire!" and they unleashed hell upon the vulnerable Germans, eliminating the majority. The surviving seemed to catch wind of this sudden turning point and turned back behind the tanks, which were still firing down upon us, and crawling up onto their backs. I, meanwhile, took my rifle and raced up onto the roof with a group of men from the other squads that were the least wounded.

The Mosin-Nagant with a telescopic sight was a very accurate weapon…it was able to range up to 800 plus yards. In the hands of an experienced rifleman, it had the capability of being lethal. I find respectable; easily obtainable and accurate, as well as being very rugged and reliable. It was unlike most rifles before it, better than the American Springfield or the British Lee Enfield.

I ordered the men to take aim and wait for my say-so to fire. I also brought up the men with the rocket launchers and ordered them to open fire on the tanks, which were slowly trudging on up to our positions. But, as soon as they roamed into our line of sight, the men opened up with the launchers, destroying one tank while maiming the other. The Germans on the first tank were all killed, blown to hell in a matter of seconds. The men who had hopped onto the second tank, mean-while, leapt up from their seats and down onto the damp ground.

"Keep firing!" I order. The random calls of, "Fascists in the open!" or "Die, Fritz! We'll thaw you out in the spring!" or "You fascist bastards came all this way just to die!" could easily be heard amongst the rapturous gunfire and explosions. I, spotting a promising opportunity, lobed a grenade at the feet of a German, who grabbed it and tossed it back at me. He didn't aim it well, however, and it bounced off the side of the wall in front of me and landed behind a squad of Germans advancing on the school.

_BOOM!_

Flesh, limbs, blood, and intestines were torn apart as the grenade exploded at the Germans' feet. Their carcasses fell down together in a disorderly heap, blood pouring out and around them. I hastily look away, aiming down the sight towards a lone trooper taking cover behind a piece of debris from the destroyed tank.

The second tank raised its barrel up to our position and fired with both its main cannon and the two on its side firing explosive shells.

_BOOM!_

_Boom, boom!_

Dirt, snow, and smoke flew up into the air, followed soon by blood and bones. Three of the men collapse as the shells impact, chunks of their bodies completely gone. Their eyes were open but the life was gone.

The tank reloaded and fired again.

_BOOM!_

_Boom, boom!_

_Boom, boom!_

The shells from the side guns slammed into the side of the wall, two entering through a window and exploding inside while the other two soared up over our heads. The shell from the main cannon, meanwhile, slammed into the wall, inches away from us. One of the men fell backward in pain, a sharp piece of brick shoved into his chest. Another man, seeing his fallen comrade, ran up to him and crouched down beside him, but was then shot in the temple and died instantly.

"Fire the rockets again!" I called out to the man with the bazooka. "Aim for the belly of that metal beast."

He nods and aims his launcher, firing as soon as he aligns the tank with the thin black line of his sight. As he squeezes the trigger, there is a loud cracking sound and the rocket is expelled from the barrel, slamming into the tank's chest. It blows to bits upon impact, but not all the Germans inside are killed.

Five men jump out, covered in flames. I order the men to shoot them, to put the pigs out of their misery.

I call out, "Nikita! Belinski! Check for survivors!"

With no response, I watch as Nikita runs out into the carnage, every now and again stopping at a body and kicking its flank. If it twitched, he would shoot it in the head. Then he jumped on top one of the tanks and fired a few shots inside before going in himself.

We all wait one moment.

He reappears and starts waving his arms in the air as a signal to inform us that the area was clear.

Belinski then came out and started kicking the snow over the flames of the burning tanks and dead German troops so that it didn't spread towards the school. With this done, I order the remaining men on the roof to bring the dead and wounded down onto the bottom floor while I went to check where the tank shell had impacted.

Racing down the steps, I found that the shell had exploded on the ceiling, but the debris had come crashing down on top of some unfortunate men who had been wounded the night before during a German raid.

As Nevski wasn't here, I was forced to write the report on the events of today. I discovered that Durasov and Sokalov's machine gun had been destroyed by one of the blasts and that Belinski's finger had been severed. We had a total of thirteen dead, twenty-one wounded or wounded again, and one incapacitated.

This was one of our biggest body count in our company so far, and I suspect that there will be more events like this one. Tonight, I have taken it upon myself to write the letters home to their families and collected their identification tags. When Nevski came back around 4 o'clock, I informed him about what had just happened, and he told me that he had "located the fuckers" and that "our artillery will break their will."

OCTOBER 29, 1942 – 1:34 P.M

Things have been pretty quiet over the past week.

My company has become busy on jobs revolving around burying the dead and quickly-planned assaults into fascist-held territory to flush out any remnants of the Fuhrer's assault forces. I have noticed that most of the dead enemy bodies were more commonly Italian or Croatian than German. I only saw a handful of actual German regular army men. I thought that was strange because most of the attacks we have been dealing with were usually spearheaded by the Third Reich.

Though the Reich's pure, aggressive strength is probably their finest weapon; their cowardice also seemed to help them profusely. They hid thinned themselves out amongst lines of Italians, Croatians, Romanians, Spanish, and Hungarians. This helped them take fewer casualties, but it also helped the morale of our own men. Knowing that the Germans were afraid to fight made the battles go along all the easier.

Early one morning, Nevski called me to the roof of the school. Once I arrived, he handed me a pair of binoculars and told me, "Come see this, Andrei, tell me if you think this is strange."

In a land of chaos, it was hard to define "strange."

I lifted the binoculars to my eyes and followed the finger Nevski was pointing. I spotted a flag dropped down over a window on the top floor of a building, draped over like a curtain. The swastika was adorned with pride on a red field and tears had been made on the bottom of the flag to make it look a little bit more graceful than war-damaged.

I looked at Nevski. "So what, the fascists are expressing their patriotism."

He swallowed. "That's the building we had targeted for our mortars a week ago, and now that they realize we are targeting their position, they choose to put up a flag for their Fuhrer? No, this is strange. I am going to contact Voronin and see what he thinks, but I see this as a symbol of defiance—it cannot go unpunished, so get your men ready."

OCTOBER 30, 1942 – 11:59 A.M

Nevski is planning an attack on the building with the flag.

I've begun to have a back problem. I saw a medic about it, but he just explained that I just needed to try lying down more. To tell you the truth, I don't see that happening any time soon.

The Captain has ordered that all ammo and provisions be salvaged, and that all explosives be brought to him immediately. He has had children and women scout out the area around the building to see if there was a weak point in their defenses, as well as to count how many guns and troops they had stationed there. Despite this, I don't believe Nevski has been given permission for this raid, as Voronin has yet to call or write us of any news. Nevski has become more impatient every day—he becomes angry over the littlest things and is more physical than most men in the company.

OCTOBER 30, 1942 – 7:15 P.M

I've never truly met anyone quite like Captain Elias Nevski.

He is not what you would say "old". Then again, he is not a young man. He is extremely tall. I think it is his sense of height that impresses me the most. The troops and the locals must be overwhelmed with his very size. Next thing that was most noticeable about him was the guns. He wore two TT-30's sitting high under his armpits in custom-made holsters, not the usual holsters they issue in a standard armory. He also carried a machete hidden within the lapels of his winter coat, one which he had used on several occasions during combat.

I have known Elias for years; he was my squad sergeant during my first year of service and became my friend upon his promotion to Lieutenant after the Second Kharkov. Despite this, he has taken a liking to calling me by my last name, Toufexis, instead of my first—Andrei. But he does treat me better than he would the other non-commissioned officers, in spite of me being a lowly Junior Sergeant squad leader.

He respects me and I respect him.

However, over the past couple of weeks, I have begun to worry about him—he fights with the goal of fulfilling his thirst for blood rather than for a Soviet victory in Stalingrad. One cannot look into the man's eyes, for you will see the soul of a man burning with a hatred for all things German.

I consider this man one of my best friends, but yet I know only little about him and he never wishes to share anything. But we talk and confess to one another, sharing a bond in which only brothers ever have. Recently, the men in our platoon have started a type of "guessing game" to figure out his past. The object of the game is to get a conversation going in which we bring up the subject of things such as "what did you do for a living?" or "how old were you when you volunteered, comrade?" and then would persist until we got an answer. So far, every time someone tries to do this, we are always shot down and threatened. This has led us to start gambling. Personally, I find it more entertaining than cards, but this is most likely due to me winning the most money.


	3. Chapter 3

NOVEMBER 1, 1942 – 8:01 P.M

I was not born to live in these times of turmoil. At least not in this place, Russia, the country I love. I am torn apart daily as I go through life as a supporter of the communist leader, Stalin, while in reality I am a lover of the newer democracy introduced by the Americans. I fight for my family, my beautiful wife Svetlana, not for Stalin and his government. I fight for the motherland; I fight to keep the Nazis from expanding into our country, _not_ for the communism way of life. I fight in the Red Army because I love my nation and my family.

But today, my squad and I have bared witness to the atrocities that come when Nazism and Communism collides:

Today Nevski was given the permission he was seeking to assault the building, and immediately began making his preparations. First, he divided the company into two different groups. 1st and 2nd Platoons would be making the assault while the 3rd stayed and protected the wounded. He then called in for the support company to send in a new batch of machine guns, which would be essential to the assault.

When they were finally shipped down to us, Nevski distributed the weapons out equally amongst the platoons and then debriefed us all on the mission—a simple one, according to Nevski.

The machine gunners for 1st and 2nd were to set up in a park across the street from the building while their mortars set up on the roof of a building within range of the target. My squad and I would then go in Nevski and 4th Squad to assault the building under the rest of the company's fire. As our own machine gunners would set up to cover the exits, the rest of us would assault each floor until we were able to cut down the flag and burn it. Nevski thought it was simple, so he thought he only needed a handful of shock troopers to assault a building estimated to contain over two dozen Germans. To make sure that the assault was executed perfectly, he made sure that each man got a PPD-40 submachine gun, two grenades, and the choice of either a Mosin-Nagant rifle or a coach gun. I chose to take the coach gun, as the Mosin-Nagant is much better for longer and more medium ranges than to close combat.

We loaded up all the supplies onto the trucks and prepared to move out. Nevski quickly ran an inspection to see that the school's defenses were satisfactory and ordered all the men to get into the space left on the trucks.

We drove up to the street block behind the building, loading out of the trucks and setting up our machine guns and mortars. With the majority of the men in their places, I was given the go by Nevski to start ordering the assault. I ordered Nikita—our support gunner—and Belinski down the left flank, Sokolov and Durasov down the center behind me, and 4th squad down the right following Nevski. 4th squad would be doing most of the heavy lifting, as my squad usually served as a support force.

Nikita, as our support gunner, carried a Degtyaryov light machine gun, which was often called the "Record Player" due to the disk-shaped pan magazine perched on the top of the weapon and the fact that it revolves as the gun is fired. Durasov and Sokolov served as our riflemen so carried Mosin-Nagant rifles as their main weapons and would be assigned to flanking the enemy once they have been fixed by suppressing fire from Nikita's fire. Belinski served as Nikita's support gunner, carried all the extra ammo for the machine gun, and carried a submachine gun to assist Nikita. I, meanwhile, kept a submachine gun for as long as we are at this far a range, but once we get inside, I would most likely switch to the coach gun.

I raised a finger to my lips. "Shhhh…"

If we were heard by the fascists, all of Nevski's planning would have gone down the drain.

Nevski and 4th squad stopped in between a set of hills made out of a cluster of ice and snow. Their support gunner set up his bipod while the others checked their weapons. Durasov and Sokolov raced all the way to the metal fence that stretched out across the perimeter of the property, while Nikita, Belinski, and I set up the machine gun in the gutter of a road opposite of the building.

Blowing away the smoke forming around my breath, I jumped up from the gutter and joined my two riflemen. Nevski and 4th squad immediately pushed up into the grounds surrounding the building.

I spotted a German.

"There, there!" I hissed towards Durasov. "I see a German on the left second floor window…he's got a machine gun!" I patted him on the shoulder and pointed up at the building.

Durasov raised his rifle, aimed, and fired.

_CRACK!_

The bullet slapped the German's forehead and ricocheted into the side of the wall, pushing him off balance and straight out of the window. He screamed as he fell and his comrades were easily notified.

Two machine guns opened fire and two men behind Nevski dropped dead. One other pulled Nevski by the collar, pulling him to cover. Another machine gun, this set up high on the roof, caught wind of the attack and opened fire on anything that moved below it.

1st and 2nd Platoon opened fire amidst the chaos, with a little support from our own man, Nikita, whose gun began to whine as it fired. I aimed my PPD-40 at one of the gunners and fired a burst towards his chest. Signaling for Nikita and Belinski to move up to our position, Sokolov, Durasov, and I blindly fired up at the enemy positions.

A bullet whizzed past my head, hitting the steam evaporating from my breath.

Then, in turn, the steam turned into vapor, forming into a long white cloud. I watched as bullet soared through the air at 2700 feet per second until it impacted, right into Belinski's leg. Red mist sprayed out into the air and Belinski stumbled over with a gurgle of pain. We were all stunned, shuffling back farther behind cover. Belinski continued to wail in pain, his leg bent and bleeding badly. One of the Germans popped his head out, searching for us. I raised my weapon and fired a burst, blowing a chunk out of the man's face. One of the men from 4th squad ran up to Belinski and started to wrap his leg up with a bandage. He, unfortunately, was not lucky enough to be shot in the leg, but was rather hit in the chest and was killed almost immediately. I stepped out to fire a shot. The instant I did so, however, a bullet struck my ankle, tearing away both flesh and bone.

I stumbled over onto my knee and fired a shot off at one of the Germans.

Durasov crouched down beside me, patting Nikita on the back as he reached the cover behind us. "Are you okay?"

I bit my bottom lip. "Yes!"

"We got to get Belinski back into cover, comrade," Sokolov called. "Or he will either bleed to death or be shot by the fascist dogs."

"No!" I yelled, angry. "We're too exposed as it is…any man who goes out there is a dead man. No. Keep firing on them so Nevski and his men can break through, comrades."

Nikita shook his head. "Nevski's men are all dead, comrade!"

I closed my eyes, this time in a deeper state of anger. "Damn, we need to get contact with the rest of 1st and 2nd. None of us were supplied with one, but were any of Nevski's men given a portable radio?"

I looked out from cover and found an entrance into the building but thirty feet away. I, muted by the thunderous gunfire coming from the German machine gun, motioned for my men, with the exception of Nikita, to follow me as we assaulted the building. If we wanted to save Belinski and all the other men, we needed to eliminate the German threat.

Taking one last look at Belinski, who was almost trembling, I sprinted towards the building under Nikita's fire. As I ran, I looked up at the sky. All I could think about was the clouds. Not fluffy white clouds—surrounded by angels and sunlight, but thunderclouds taking up the whole greedy sky. I find it strange that I would do this, but then again, I had yet to see a blemish of blue on the grey sky for the past week and a half. If I was to die, I didn't want to go without seeing blue.

My ankle hurt.

I realized that I was more limping than sprinting, a worm-like trail following me closely. Reaching the building, I hugged the wall. I turned around and motioned for one of my men to follow. Durasov fired a shot at the Germans as Nikita took out another casing of ammo and Sokolov sprinted out into the open. Snow was kicked up all around him by the power of the bullets being fired at him.

Then there was a _CRACK!_

And Sokolov fell dead.

I drew out a grenade and tossed it into the window of where some Germans were firing from. Nikita and Durasov were then able to get to my position without incident. I kicked open the door to the structure, grenades were thrown and bullets were fired, and we proceeded to cover Nevski and the remnants of 4th squad as they crossed over to our position.

There were four stories in the structure and about twice as many Germans on each floor. Of the twenty-some Germans originally stationed there, three were taken prisoner. However, of the four men of 4th squad that entered with Nevski and my squad, one man came out alive, even if his leg had been blown off and had lost consciousness. We took the flag down from its perch and set it a flame. As the rest of 1st and 2nd Platoon set up shop in the lower levels and Belinski was attended to, my squad and I were given duty to watch the prisoners.

At around 7 o'clock, Nevski came in.

His eyes were teary, his brow sweaty, and his hands were clenched around empty bottles of German whiskey. He was obviously drunk and upset about what had happened just hours before. The bodies were being loaded onto trucks to be sent to Moscow, where they would be buried. He came right up to the prisoners, who we had lined up against the wall with their hands bound. We had given them cigarettes, as two of them were wounded and the other just seemed miserable.

Nevski dropped the bottles and drew out one of his pistols, digging it into the chin of one of the Germans. "This one's for my mother!" _CRACK!_ The man fell over with a bullet in his mouth. Nevski grabbed the next by the throat. "This one's for my father, butchers!" _CRACK!_ "This one's for my little sister, you fascist son of a bitch!" _CRACK!_

Three bodies lay at Nevski's feet and everyone around him stared in shock. I was infuriated, my hands clenched and my nose flaring. He continued to shoot the dead bodies. "That's for Valentina! That's for my dog! Ah, how you like it!"

Several bullets now lay stuck in each body and blood had begun to pour out onto the floor.

I marched up behind Nevski and grabbed his gun, casting it aside. He turned to me with a frown. I frowned back. "What do you think you are doing, Nevski! They were POWs; unarmed prisoners."

He shrugged. "They were Germans, they deserved death."

I could smell the alcohol in his breath. "You're drunk, comrade, you need to rest."

He shoved me. "Go to hell!"

I stumbled over on my wounded ankle, pain coursing through my leg. I stood back up, slowly and with panted breaths. We exchanged looks with one another, Nikita and Durasov looking on helplessly. Nevski shoved me again, only this time less hard and more intimidating.

Now utterly furious, I swung back my fist and struck the captain across the jaw, knocking him off balance. He gathered himself and looked at me, drawing out his other pistol. I tensed and backed away, my eyes switching from the blood dripping from Nevski's mouth to the weapon in his hand. But, for some reason, he flipped the pistol over and carried it by the barrel instead of the handle.

"Huh?" was my stupid reply.

_SNAP!_ Something hit me hard across the temple. Was the snap my bones breaking or the handle of his pistol breaking apart? I found myself on my back, the taste of blood in my mouth and my vision hazy. From what I could see, there was a large commotion going on before me.

Durasov and Nevski had collided in an all-out brawl; fists and feet met tired bones and already softened flesh. Suddenly, Nevski had Durasov on the ground, his pistol in one hand while the other fumbled for a combat knife inches away from Durasov's grasp.

I struggled to my feet, my recently sealed ankle opened once again.

Durasov grabbed the knife and slashed open Nevski's hand, forcing the captain to stumble back. Nevski fired a shot from his pistol, hitting his opponent in the shoulder. Durasov, numb to his new wound, plunged at Nevski with his knife, stabbing right through the man's flesh.

Nevski cried out in pain and squeezed the trigger on his pistol.

_CRACK!_

A bullet soared inches near Durasov's ear and slammed into Nikita's forehead, knocking two feet back and into the wall close behind him. I ran to my friend's side, but it was too late.

He was dead.

I cradled my comrade in my arms, completely oblivious to the men of 1st and 2nd platoons storming the room at the sound of gunshots. They separated Durasov and Nevski. I noticed them take the knife out of his body and try to breathe the life back into the captain, but ignored the rest. Durasov stumbled up to the opposite side of Nikita.

I closed the man's eyes and whispered a prayer.

Nikita and Sokolov…two out four men in my squad, men who I have shared dreams, nightmares, hobbies, rations, trust, and prayers with. I will never see these men again. All because of something only Nevski thought was needed.

I no longer consider Nevski a comrade.

NOVEMBER 2, 1942 – 11:34 P.M

The medic has managed to patch up my heel, but has told me that I will be limping for a couple months now.

Nikita is dead, but Nevski still breaths, having only been severely injured and will return to us in a couple of weeks. So, filling in for the captain, Commissar Pavelonva has taken command over the company. Belinski, meanwhile, has been patched up and has come back to us as we were transported from the school to a more sturdy building west of a large courtyard.

We have set up our guns so that they point directly at the courtyard and the houses beyond. Pavelonva has told us that the German "rats" have been using this courtyard as a supply depot for their armor and their artillery, and that patrols would be coming to and from the courtyard to reinforce their troops. When I asked him why he wanted our guns pointing at the buildings on the other end of the courtyard, he had this to say:

"The rats are creeping all over that position, so if they try to charge across the courtyard, our guns with be ready to end their fascist lives. If they come for our blood, they will drown in their own."

He then sent me on my way with an ignorant scoff, shooing me with his hands. So, I returned to my men as they began to set up the two machine guns we had been given. Belinski showed us all where he had been shot and the scar that was left after the medics had sealed the wound. We inquired him about what it had felt like to get wounded, to which he replied, "I felt vulnerable…like a baby chick that has just hatched out of its protective shell."

Durasov then turned to me. "How did it feel like for you?"

I shrugged. "It was painful, that's all I can remember."

Durasov laughed, shaking his head whilst lighting a cigarette for both me and Belinski. I can't remember the last time I had had a cigarette before this moment, and, as the heat of the tobacco touched my lips, I felt warm for the first time since September.

Belinski took his coach gun and rested it on his lap; taking a drag from the cigarette he had been given. "If it weren't for cigarettes, comrades, I don't think I'd ever make it through this winter. Already my fingers have begun to stiffen with frostbite and my body endlessly shakes. Even when I was resting in the field hospital it is cold."

A little after five o'clock in the afternoon, rain began to fall upon us in sheets. Gusts of bitter wind seemed to blow straight in our faces. I withdrew myself from the room we had begun to take shelter in and sought refuge inside the kitchen the Commissar had taken as his headquarters. It was filled with men from the company and civilians whose homes had been destroyed. Despite this, I managed to find myself a place to lie and quickly fell asleep. About one hour later, I was awoken to the sound of the people stirring and talking, and coming awaken I heard the sound of a plane buzzing overhead.

I ran to the window, as it did not sound like one of our planes, and found that it was definitely one of the German Stuka bombers. Pavelonva called for everyone to take cover just seconds before the bomb was dropped and the plane's machine guns begins to fire.

_BOOM!_

The kitchen exploded.

NOVEMBER 3, 1942 – 8:56 A.M

War is everywhere, and its danger grows as the Fuhrer's army grows in size and ferocity. I have underestimated the Third Reich's savagery and lust for power. Its massive, tireless, well-prepared armies attack our positions relentlessly, usually with little to no warning, and leave a sickening path of destruction in their wake. And now they have done the unforgivable: I have received a letter that my home and neighborhood in eastern Stalingrad has been attacked and destroyed. The place where I spent my childhood; where my brother, his wife, and his two children had made their homes; now utterly annihilated has been left as a smoldering heap of rubble. I can only pray that my friends and family escaped safely.

General Badanov came to our position today, looking for volunteers for an elite shock battalion he was forming. I eagerly volunteered my squad for a scouting post in his new army. The horrors of this war have given me a new resolve, and I am no longer content with what my company has currently been doing. We will not lose Stalingrad; Hitler shall not conquer the motherland.

NOVEMBER 4, 1942 – 9:30 P.M

Tonight I have the pleasure of camping with Badanov's army. The battalion has heard rumors of a pending attack. They are holding the high ground in the old ruins of Stalingrad's industrial district. Colonel Voronin has been given command of this army and never goes anywhere without his five bodyguards. I fear that he believes someone is going to make an attempt on his life.

I spun up a conversation with Voronin, who spoke of the war in the idealistic manner of a loyal Russian. "Stalin is a noble man; Hitler, on the other hand, is his opposite…is evil. Hitler and the Third Reich seek power and wealth, like so many generals before him. At what point do we, intelligent beings, begin to learn from our history?"

NOVEMBER 17th, 1942 – 7:13 P.M

Our men moved away from the industrial district after being relieved by a larger force. We travel along the banks of the Volga River in an attempt to distract the German 6th Army as Operation "Uranus" was put into effect. From what we have been told, the plan was for the units of the Red Army on the enemy's northern flank to assault the German and Romanian positions in hopes of encircling the enemy army group's main component, the German 6th Army. From what little information we were given, it was basically a perfect plan.

But I have my doubts.

We were to take up residence in the ruins of one of Stalingrad's northwestern districts and fire upon the enemy's positions with our mortars. Hopefully, the Germans would send the majority of their troops to attack our positions, leaving the rest vulnerable to the Soviet attack.

We are now camped amongst the ruins of the city. Its cement sidewalks and fallen walls act as a window into the past of this bloody war. The lifeless eyes of a weather-worn face stare out at me from among the ruins. Those eyes of stone, belonging to some abandoned and broken statue, are a haunting sight.

This is my second war, both wars fought for a righteous cause, both enemies ruthless and vile; and yet, even now, one thing remains the same: the eyes, the look of overwhelming fear and desperation in every set of dying eyes. And yet, the gut churning feeling I get when I look in those eyes is the same feeling that keeps me hear on the front lines. Some other set of eyes is counting on me to keep the spark of life and freedom alive in them.

This district is a tactical bottleneck. Mountains of snow and debris are piled on top of every road, forcing the Germans to march their men through one road in order to reinforce the 6th Army. I am told that, if the 6th Army is reinforced any more, it would be impossible for our comrade forces to defeat the army.

Now, for the first time since I have been deployed into this city, we have a chance to win this fight and encircle the German armies. Hitler believes we are all worn out. His forces have cut away at our numbers by engaging in all these bloody battles after battles. But, finally, the tides are changing. We are summoning reinforcements from all around—gaining help from civilians and outside armies alike.

Earlier today I was caught off guard by the loud vroom of wheels speeding against debris. I reached for my binoculars to take a closer look, and discovered a sea of Russian troops. Mounted on top of jeeps armed with machine guns, I saw the rest of our original company approach our positions, Captain Nevski standing at the helm. They all parked in an alley, took off the machine guns, and covered the jeeps with camouflage. Nevski then ordered the men to set up their guns among our already set up positions.

Voronin, after having a brief conversation with Nevski, came up to us with a glum look on his face. "Andrei, you and your squad are to report back to Captain Nevski from now on, understood?"

Durasov and Belinski expressed looks of distress.

I tried to calm them. "Does that mean we're no longer apart of Badanov's unit, sir?"

"Yes," Voronin answered. "Your company is short-handed as is, and Badanov had no right to take you from them. You and your squad shall be taking orders from Nevski once again, is that understood?"

I swallowed hard. "Yes sir."

I motioned for my squad to displace from our current position and ordered for them to follow me as I went to Nevski for our new orders. He looked at me with disgusted sneer and said, "Toufexis, take a machine gun and dig yourselves some foxholes along the debris right of the road."

I cocked an eyebrow. "But, sir, we'll be completely exposed if we set up there."

He squinted. "I know."

I swallowed hesitantly. This man wanted us dead. But, what was I to do about it? He was our CO and if we didn't do as he said we would be shot. So, reluctantly, I told my men of our new orders. Despite their pissed off attitudes towards the situation, they did as they were told and we moved out. I grabbed a Record Player machine gun and followed Durasov and Belinski as they headed over to our designated position.

As we began to dig our foxhole, Durasov began to gripe. "That bastard, Nevski, wants us dead. For what we did to him, he fucking wants to kill us."

Belinski squinted in confusion. "I thought you said he started it. What should he be mad about? That he lost? That he killed Nikita? That Svoloch deserves to be court-martialled and executed for treachery. Stalin has little need for heroes, so he must have little patience for traitorous drunkards."

"If Nevski's a traitor," I said. "So is Durasov—no offense, comrade—and so am I. All three of us had some fault in what happened. It's what he did that led to Nikita's death, but what you and I, Durasov, did that fueled the gears of the machine. Though it might seem like utter foolishness, Nevski has a right to be angry…I mean you slashed his chest open for God's sake. He fell over and his finger slipped."

"The gun shouldn't have been out in the first place!" Durasov exclaimed. "He was under the influence of alcohol. That is what led to our comrade's death, not my actions or yours. We acted in self-defense and the defense of others, despite the fact that the others were fascists."

Belinski smiled deviously. "Maybe it was your love for the Germans th—"

"Fuck you!" I yelled. "Keep digging."

All of us stopped talking at that, picked up our entrenching tools, and continued to dig our foxhole.

By the time this was done the sun had fallen.


	4. Chapter 4

NOVEMBER 19, 1942 – 8:01 P.M

The assault has begun today.

We all watched it occur from the safety of the roofs that still stood amidst the ruined buildings. All I could see were tracer rounds exploding upon the horizon, explosions discharging all around, and hundreds of little dots racing across the city landscape.

Belinski happily counted the explosions he saw, scribbling down tallies on the back page of my journal. He promised all of us that he would be handing out one cigarette for every two explosions. None of the men, myself included, ever held him up to his promises, as he usually "forgot" or "never said it". But after it was over, he didn't give us the cigarettes anyway, despite the twenty explosions.

Nevski came up to the roof and called into the crowd. "Okay, everyone back to your positions. The Romanians have begun to hold their positions and have dug in pretty well against our comrades. Field Marshall Zhukov has made it so that, if the Romanians should manage to escape and flee, they will be forced to come down to us," he pointed to the road, "here. It is part of Field Marshall Zhukov's plan that we don't allow the enemy past this road. There shall be no retreat. Any man who disobeys this order shall be shot," he looked up at me. "Am I understood?"

There was a low chorus of "Yes sir!" and everyone sped down to their positions and loaded their weapons.

I crouched down amongst the debris, two feet beside the foxhole, and slipped two rounds into my coach gun. Durasov and Belinski, meanwhile, helped one another quickly load the Record Player and set it up so that it was ready to fire. We had all known this moment would come; most had done everything in their power to try and avoid it. This, an event that could be the turning point of this battle in Stalingrad, would also be a turning point in our lives. If we routed the German 6th Army and forced them into a retreat, they would be completely encircled and be forced to surrender, being cut off from the rest of their forces. I found myself with the "fighting-for-a-fallen-comrade" mindset, the images of Sokolov and Nikita's faces crossed over my visage, but so did Nevski's. In a way Nevski is a fallen comrade, corrupted by war and its atrocities.

But, unlike Sokolov and Nikita, I believe Nevski can be saved from the fiery gates of Hell. My squadmates are dancing in Heaven now, Durasov, Belinski, and I are dancing amongst the living mortals, and Nevski has been roughly dragged to the in-between. He is a shade, a wraith; holding onto delusions as a phantom hiding from the light with us men.

Durasov leaned in. "Strike hold, comrades." And he patted Belinski and me on the shoulder.

Belinski nodded and handed out the cigarettes he owed us. Durasov quickly lit one of his and began smoking it, while I took mine and tucked them into my breast pocket. I then took a winter cap with the Russian hammer-and-sickle embroidered onto it and placed it on my head.

I've recently noticed how much colder the weather has been getting. Even in the heat of battle I have found myself shivering from the cold wind and the snow surrounding me. Here, the winter snows last from October to late February, and the days become almost unbearable. I think some time, before I die, I will escape this place and visit, maybe, Spain, Morocco, or South America. Any of these places would be more desirable than Russia. I love my country but, sometimes you just have to get away.

I watched as a couple of the men Nevski had taken as his personal bodyguards ran out onto the road, carrying mines and wire. They then took the explosives and planted it amongst debris, which they pulled from the destroyed building they were taking cover in. Attaching the explosives to one end of the wire, they pulled the opposite end of the wire and tied it around a trigger. With this done, two of them began to pile up bricks and stones and blocks of wood up around the diameter of the road in an attempt to slow the German vehicles down.

As we waited for the enemy to arrive, I began to write down, in udder boredom, what my company had to throw at the Germans and their allies. The company had a total of about sixty-five men, each armed with a rifle or submachine gun, a pistol or another rifle, and six grenades. There were also men armed with machine guns and mortars, anti-tank weapons, and grenade launchers. Nevski's bodyguards were armed with German MP 18 submachine guns, which they had discovered amongst German corpses, and each were given German Panzerfausts and Tokarev pistols, which Nevski had to beg off of the supply officers.

Despite there being about only twelve men acting as his bodyguards, Nevski made sure they were the most highly equipped men in the entire army. All of them were the finest soldiers from their respective divisions, handpicked by Nevski himself to conduct "special" operations. They were elite troopers dedicated to protecting Nevski and defeating the Germans.

If Nevski died, his men were going to make sure it wasn't from a bullet, explosion, or bayonet.

The bodyguards were relatively unfriendly towards the men of the company, either shunning us or becoming upset whenever placed beside one of us instead of their own. They were all non-commissioned officers and had at least some control over us grunts. Despite being a junior sergeant, some of the bodyguards, who were Corporals, have had authority over me.

One of the bodyguards, Corporal Yuri Daletski, came to our foxhole and began passing out a couple canisters of ammo for the Record Player and a drum full of grenades. He told us, "Use the grenades wisely…there aren't any more left that you can use." and then left for the building Nevski was in. We all watched as he left, a rifle in one hand and a cigar in the other. Durasov took out a pack of cards and began to play a game with Belinski.

"From what I've heard," Belinski started. "Only a company of Romanians are coming this way…the rest have either been captured or surrounded and forced to flee in another direction."

Durasov shuffled the cards. "Well, after listening on the radio, I heard that we probably won't meet the stiff resistance we've been preparing for. I don't think we will be fighting a force bigger than a couple platoons. I heard that the Germans got cut off in the south and that half the Romanian tanks have been destroyed."

"It's not surprising," Belinski replied. "Our intelligence stated that the enemy had only about one hundred serviceable tanks and, when the attack began, only thirty of them worked. There's a big blizzard going on down there, which probably froze the tanks' traction and froze their sights. They were probably as coordinated as a hill of ants without their Queen."

"What do you think, Andrei?"

I shrugged. "War's confusing…"

I tried to play dumb. I do most of the time. In reality, I understood that the goal of the operation was to eliminate the German 6th Army's flanks by defeating the 170,000 Romanians stationed there and, with luck, encircle the remaining Germans trapped inside our lines. Zhukov's plan was to overwhelm the Romanian positions with several attack waves consisting of a large amount of Soviet troops. Earlier today, Nevski informed us that our attack on Army Group B in September had been a part of Zhukov's overall scheme to cut off the German and Romanian supply lines.

From what we have heard on the radio lines, our comrades have already made a massive wedge in the Romanian forces, making most of them run in fright, but the majority of their forces were stuck between stiff walls of resistance by both the Romanians and the Germans. Nevski keeps telling us that if any Romanians managed to escape the grasp of our comrades, they would be forced to come down this road, and yet, we still haven't seen any human being come down or around this road.

As the sun began to set, we could all still hear the distant rumble of explosions and the crackle of gunfire. Nevski ordered all fires and sources of light to be extinguished and at least one of every two men to be awake at all times, weather we work in shifts or continuously. I decided to take the first shift so that I might write this diary entry down before all light had gone out. I find myself overjoyed that I have written as neatly as I am.

After the sun had gone down, I saw Nevski take a walk down the road, coming back about half an hour later carrying something large in his hand. I hid beneath my blanket of shadows and watched as he passed my foxhole. Very briefly, I looked up towards what was in his hand, only to find the twisted faces of three Romanians who'd had their heads severed from their bodies.

I crouched down in my foxhole, apparently noisier than I had hoped, as Nevski turned towards my direction and came up to my squad's foxhole. All I could hear was the sound of gravel beneath his boots, but, when it stopped, I could hear a low, maniacal laugh.

"You like that, Toufexis?"

Then, there was a swish in the air and a thud, and very barely through the darkness, I saw the head of one of the Romanians resting a couple feet before my legs.

"You can have that one, comrade. Enjoy."

And he walked away.

I can't bear to go near the head, so that's where it shall remain until my squad awakens tomorrow. They can deal with it then, but for now I will let them sleep, for I know now that I probably won't be able to. Nevski's trying to kill me, using bullets, sleep deprivation, and fright. What have I done to deserve this? As I recall, we were friends before that incident with the prisoners.

NOVEMBER 20, 1942 – 10:31 P.M

I awoke to the earth trembling.

Snow, dirt, and blood shook all over. Explosive rounds simmered above me and blew into my company's positions. Through the haze of fatigue, I managed to see Belinski in front of me, manning the machine gun, as Durasov sat beside him, firing his rifle. I shook my head and sat up, not even noticing the grotesque head of the Romanian that had been thrown in our foxhole the night before. I crawled up on the opposite side of Belinski, taking my rifle from the edge of the hole.

"Come on, you bastards!" Belinski screamed, firing a burst from the machine gun before reloading. "Come on you—"

BAAM!

A round landed three feet before us. Belinski was cut off mid-sentence as he ducked for cover. After a few moments, he straightened back up and reloaded the Record Player, taking in a quick drag from his cigarette before continuing his fire on the enemy.

I raised my rifle and pointed it towards the direction of the gunfire. I instantly spotted dozens of enemy infantry, which I easily identified as Romanians by their brown uniforms and their curved helmets, stumbling over the debris covering the road whilst firing random shots on our positions. After a second of looking, I also noticed a pair of German tanks bursting through the rubble with great force before firing incredibly devastating shells on us. Several bodies—their blood and bowels hanging out and splattered around—lay strewn about the road. As the tanks moved, the ground shook and the pieces of shattered material bounced around.

Corporal Daletski came running across the road. One of the tanks fired. The shell landed on the man's back, blowing him apart. His chest seemed to burst open like a balloon as his intestines fell out and blood splattered all over. His body broke into three pieces, all of which ripped apart like paper and fell flat on ground, never to move again.

Bullets soared in all directions. The building where the majority of the company was holding up was nearly destroyed; dozens of nasty holes lay in its sides, leaving several men exposed and vulnerable. However, it was obvious that the men were holding their own, firing down upon the oncoming enemy with all they had. But, it seemed, was not enough. I could see the look on the men's faces, the fear in their eyes—they were on the verge of breaking and running.

Then something happened.

Nevski stood up on a pile of rubble, a revolver raised in one hand and a fist bent beside his hip. He was the American general George Washington, standing upon the prow of his ship to face the enemy head-on. His bodyguards quickly crowded around him, either stepping in front of him or attempting to pull him down. Any attempt made was met with a stiff body that shouted the word "no", as Nevski continued to fight.

Durasov patted me on the shoulder. Once he'd caught my attention, he pointed to one of the tanks, which was beginning to cower into an alley. "I think they're trying a pincer move, Andrei. What do we do?"

"Go, comrade, get to Nevski and tell him. Belinski and I will cover you."

Durasov nodded, fired a round at the Romanians, and leapt out of the foxhole as Belinski unloaded his weapon into the enemy. To my relief, he made it across the road without any problems, and the last I saw of him was his back disappearing into the ruined building. Soon, however, the second tank began pushing up through the road towards our position. So, as it began to fire towards us, I ordered Belinski to displace to the second floor window of the building behind our position. I covered him as best I could, but the tank shrugged off the bullets that snapped around its hard shell.

It did not stop. Like a train charging on its tracks. It would not stop unless its driver wanted it so. The moment Belinski was in the cover of the building, I leapt through the hole just seconds before I was crushed by the tank. The tank commander sprang out of the top of the armored vehicle armed with a submachine gun.

He saw me and I saw him.

I, however, was a bit quicker and shot him quickly…right between the eyes. He went plunk down into the tank and I sprang away just as another one of the tank crew came out and began firing on me with the same submachine gun. Snow and wood, rocks and glass were all kicked up around me, but I myself managed to get to cover without taking a graze.

Once inside, I followed Belinski as he raced upstairs and set up his machine gun in the window. The tank crew didn't seem to like this and raised their main cannon up at us, missing us only by a few yards.

The roof blew off and the walls crumbled. I felt like I was in the middle of that tornado in the American movie the Wizard of Oz, my mind swirled around and around, my eyes seeming to shake, and suddenly the ground was taken out from under me and I fell, hitting the ground below hard. When I woke, my vision was blurred.

But I saw Belinski.

He came staggering up to me, several shards of wood jutting out of his chest and back. His eyes were bloodshot and his lower lip was quivering. Belinski reached out to me with one hand, the hoarse and raspy word "Comrade…" before he fell to the ground dead.

I stayed where I was, tears rolling down my eyes and sobs escaping my lips. His head was resting on my ankle, a puddle of blood forming up around his waist and his Record Player lay split in two beside him. I don't know how long I sat there, staring at his body. But when I eventually stood up, my face red and my eyes watery, I could hear the Romanians outside, running around as my comrades fired upon them.

I walked out, trudging through the snow and debris with little consideration for my life. My rifle dragged at my side, explosions and bullets crashing down around me from every which-way. The pain in my heart, despite how extreme and real it felt, was almost numbing at the same time. I couldn't feel the force of the grenade explosions rocking around me, I couldn't feel the bullet slam through my leg, and I couldn't feel the blood pouring out of me.

I could see one of Nevski's bodyguards, Sergeant Alexei, run up to me, rest his rifle on the ground, and take me by the shoulders. He dragged me across the road and brought me to a nearby building, calling for a medic and for Durasov to come help him bandage my leg. My ears were ringing and my head was spinning. There was no roof to the building and the icy winds roared below the dim, dreary skies. Each gust felt like a thousand knives running straight through me. My leg was especially cold; stinging like the skin had been ripped from the bone. Durasov came and helped prop my leg up on a stool so Alexei could wrap a large piece of white cloth around my wound.

Durasov patted my cheek. "You are going to be alright, comrade. It is just a flesh wound…" He looked up nervously towards Alexei, who simply wiped the sweat off of my hot forehead.

"I can't stop the bleeding," Alexei said. "We need to move him to the medical base down by the cemetery."

"Alright," Durasov replied.

Alexei tied a knot in the cloth and made sure it was sturdy. There was a strained shock of pain around my wound and my vision began to blacken. With what little strength I had, I raised my arm and gripped Durasov's collar. When I started to speak, what little audible speech that came out was covered in a sob.

"Belinski's dead…" I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. "They killed him, comrade. I failed him…"

Durasov gently gripped my hand. "It is okay, comrade—"

"He is going into shock," Alexei abruptly announced. "We need to get him out of here."

I felt a hard pressure as Alexei grabbed both my shoulders and Durasov lifted both my legs. They both then proceeded to carry me outside, amidst the gunfire and explosions, and bring me far away from the sounds of war. I don't know how long they carried me for, but, after a while, I began to doze out. All I can remember after that was Alexei and Durasov meeting a medic squad about three blocks down the road from the fighting, the rumblings of cannon and small arms fire echoing in my ears.

Like the roar of a lion, it was.

It numbed my ears.

But, I was not yet taken by the grasp of death, finding myself being thrown upon a sleigh and dragged through the barren streets of Stalingrad.

I watched on, helpless, as I was pulled through the gates of a cemetery. Around me, sleds confiscated from children were pulled along, wounded and dead bodies laid down upon them. There was a makeshift hospital at one corner of the cemetery, but it seemed to be filled to the brim with both doctors and dying soldiers. Standing amongst the graves of the loved and lost, the gravediggers were weak and dying from hunger; I watched one collapse down into the hole he had dug. The coffins had all been burnt for fuel, so the bodies had been wrapped in blood-dampened cloth as a replacement.

One of the medics took a slip, scribbled on it with a pen, and slapped it down onto my chest. I then watched as two more men lifted me up from the sleigh and rested me down onto a soft stack of hay and pulled up a blanket to my chin, but left my wounded leg open from the covers. They then left me to rest for a moment while they treated other patients recently coming to the facility.

"You shouldn't be moving so much," one of the doctors told me upon seeing me write in this journal. "Finish your thoughts, but no more writing, comrade. It'll needlessly prolong your stay here."

What could I say? I had no other idea beside "O.K" at the time, but now I wish I hadn't agreed. Now, as the sunlight begins to dim outside, I see that I will need to stop soon. I don't know how I will get to sleep tonight, as all I can see when I close my eyes are Belinski's…the blood swelling up around him and the shards of wood slashed through his torso like scissors on paper…I don't wish to think about it any-more. Also, I can only think about Durasov, Alexei, and Nevski, who are still on the line, fighting the enemy, the cold, and each other while I lie here in a warm hay bed with a blanket. It doesn't seem fair that, because of a small bullet, I have been relieved of all my previous duties. Despite the brief sociability between Durasov and Alexei, I believe the latter will continue Nevski and the former will become isolated during his time without me, troubled both with the death of Belinski and my injury.

I suspect this place shall be made my home at least for a small while. They say that the bullet didn't go all the way through my leg, so I should look forward to the procedure to remove it tomorrow. They say it shall be quick and simple, with little to no pain as they just got in a new shipment of morphine.

I don't believe them.

DECEMBER 12, 1942 – 8:32 A.M

It has been a week or so since the operation on my leg, but, in all honesty, I cannot tell the difference. At some points, like before, it will be numb and I won't be able to move it. On others, the pain is so excruciating that the doctors have to give me two syrettes of morphine, which they are foolish to hand out so willingly, as the army has little to spare.

One day, when the snow had ceased to fall, a German mortar strike hit a few of the graves in the yard outside of the medical tent. The machine gunners stationed along the stone wall encompassing the perimeter of the graveyard did the best they could, but there was nothing they could do against artillery. It was at that moment in which one of the bursts of pain occurred, making me scream and shout and sputter out the worst of curses. The orderlies came at me, and I, in a blind rage, flung out at them with my fists, breaking one's nose and shoving the other aside. I found myself on the floor, floundering like a fish out of water.

The mortars dropped on the ground and splashed down in flames, like pebbles skipping across the surface of a pond. Graves were undone, men were thrown into the air, and the snow caught fire. Another orderly, a blonde woman, came to me and began to stroke my hair, singing a lovely Soviet tune.

I'm ceased to yell; I began to shiver, my teeth chattering.

"You will be alright, shh…" she whispered.

She took me in her arms, the mortars still thundering out strong. Nothing as simple as a hug would seem to be so calming, yet it was the only thing restricting me from the mayhem that engulfed my surroundings. Through the hushed tone of a whisper, she told me everything about her: her name is Ninel Putin; she is a nurse from St. Petersburg; she has luscious blonde hair she spends only minutes on, yet always is complimented on by her peers; both her parents were killed during an automobile accident; she has two daughters and a son.

When the mortar strike finally ended, she lifted me up onto my good leg and rested me down on my cot.

"I shall be right back," she told me, leaping away to help carry the wounded in from the open. It took until sunset until she returned, but by this time I was dozing in and out of slumber. Ninel stayed with me all throughout the night, and it was stopped only by the sound of distant gunfire and the call for someone with medical expertise.

So, she left me be to write this journal entry.

DECEMBER 21, 1942 – 3:57 A.M

The world I once knew is now just craters and rubble and blood. I have Ninel read to me the daily division report and the death toll of the soldiers goes up every day. I don't know I do this, as each session is made up nothing more than her tenderly reading the casualty list as I grip tightly around a knot in the sheets of my cot, close my eyes, and hope to God that I do not hear Durasov's name.

Today, the list went as follows:

• Private Gena Matveev

• Private Alec Mikhailov

• Private Anatoly Lenusy

• Sergeant Ivanhoe Pabiyan

• Corporal Jasha Moriz

• Corporal Konrad Prutsky

• Junior Sergeant Nikolai Skavaski

• Lieutenant Wasyl Oleksander

• Captain Daniil Golyubev

• Lieutenant Yegor Kozlov

• Private Mikhail Prutsky

I felt such pain for my fallen comrades, but a harsh relief for the absence of the words "Private Daniil Durasov" pushed through me as I exhaled deeply. Ninel set the report aside and held me as I wept deeply; I cried for the men lost, and I cried for the pain and suffering being inflicted on my brothers by the Germans. I didn't know what else to do. When I was done, she laid me back in my cot and spawned with me a conversation.

"I had five brothers and six sisters," she began. "Two of my brothers fought in the First Great War; one caught pneumonia in the winter and the other died of wounds he sustained during an artillery attack. My family has had a history with war. It has either killed us or made us stronger. My father was one of the Bolshevik sympathizers and, after the death of my brothers he thirsted for the blood of those who had forced his sons into war."

She stopped.

"Go on," I urged. "Please."

Ninel closed her eyes and licked her lips. "It was his and many others' idea to exile Prime Minister Alexander Kerensky and, because of his part in the rebellion, my father was given sixty acres of farmland a few miles out of Stalingrad. This made our family very rich and very politically powerful. It was during this time that my parents conceived me, my two brothers, and six sisters."

"All of you?"

"Yes, we were born only years apart; my brothers were twins and I had sisters who were quintuplets."

I said nothing, but used my eyes to gesture for her to continue.

Ninel is a wonderfully young woman, the grace she carries with her is traditional, yet unique; high cheekbones, blonde hair that is straight but curls around her shoulders, vivid green eyes and long eyelashes. She washes her smock every day before dawn and ties her hair up into a bun. Underneath this, she often wears one of two blue dresses, which she claims she had woven together before volunteering for the war effort. Due to some non-monotheistic religion Ninel follows, she wears the first dress—which is taken off of a more delicate base than the second—on the first and third day of the week and during her weekend prayer. Ninel would then wear the second dress or, as she calls it, her casual dress, on the second, fourth, and fifth day of the week.

I adore everything about her. From all of her perfection to all her imperfection; from her chiseled body to how she bit her nails. I have known her now for only about a week and a half, yet I already don't want to leave her side.

She says I'll be able to go back to the front in a couple more days.

She actually sounds happy about it.

Maybe it's because she knows I've recovered from my "wound" or because I won't have to lie in a bed any longer. Maybe she thinks that, because I am now out of a hospital, I shall be away from death and misery.

Oh, how I wish that were true.

About this, I am not happy.

"I married a couple years ago." she continued. "It was an arranged marriage to a drunkard politician, who…" Ninel sighed, "beat me…physically forced me to go to bed with him." Tears began to form at the bottoms of her eyes and her lip began to tremble. "…and then he went gambling…lost and was forced to enlist in the Red Army." She took another deep breath. "I haven't since and—I know I'm not supposed to love him but…I do—I volunteered to be a doctor's aide just so I might find him."

My heart sank.

She already had someone to love.

Ninel wiped away the tears from her eyes and forced a smile onto her face. She looked at me and hiccupped. "Enough about me, my story wasn't anything special, what about yours? What brought you here…to me, now?"

I start to cough and she gave me a glass of water. As I swallowed, I blinked and said, "The war."

My voice sounded deeper and harsher then I had attended it to.

"Stalingrad is my home," I continued. "My family has lived here for more than five generations…five. When the fascists began bombing the city, my family fled and I stayed—I stayed to fight, I stayed to defend my home. But it is this decision that I regret, Ninel. For I have seen my comrades fall before me. I have seen the light fall from their eyes and let me tell you…that. Is. Not. A sight you would want to see. These past months shall haunt me for as long as I live—if I do live long at all. But I do this for my home. I do this for my family."

I laid back and looked up at the ceiling of the tent. "Have you ever left Mother Russia, Ninel? I haven't. But I dream of it. Every night I dream of a warless world with no snow, no Germans, no death. I dream of the sun rising high in the sky without being shrouded by clouds."

I looked back at Ninel, who looked even sadder than before. "What do you dream of, Ninel? Of a better husband? Of little babies growing in your belly? What do you dream of? What? Happy things? A happy life…no sadness, no despair…no killing, no war…peace…tranquility…equality. A life where there is no limit to your freedom."

Ninel crossed her arms and leaned forward in her chair. "You speak of the United States, Andrei. You want the "American Dream", as they call it. You are acting like a single-minded fool."

"Apparently, you've never been to war. When you fight, you fight to live. There is no thinking when it comes to killing. You just do it. Sometimes, you don't even have to aim. You just shoot. You pull the trigger and watch as the bullet shoots into the air."

"I don't understand…"

Ninel looked scared now. Tears were forming up as she furrowed her brow in confusion.

I shook my head at her. "And you never will, Ninel. You never will."

"Then help me understand."

"Why should I?" I glared at her. "Women have no rightful place in war. It is a man's business. A woman's elegances should never be soiled by the impurity that is war—you deserve better."

We stared at each other for a moment, but then one of the other patients called out for Ninel's help and she left me. I waited a moment, but when it became clear that she wasn't coming back, I pushed over the covers and stood up. My knees shook as my legs tried to assimilate to my body's weight above it, but they quickly straightened and I was able to limp over to the patient in the cot beside me.

A small stand had been placed beside his cot and he had a carton of cigarettes resting on top of it. When I saw the bandages wrapped around his face and his mangled torso, I supposed he wouldn't care if I took one of his roll-ups. However, when I reached down and grabbed one of them, a hand with a grip as tight as iron clamped down my wrist and pulled me close to the patient's face. A voice cracked out through the bandages.

"Those are my cigarettes, comrade."

I was in such a state of shock that all I could say was "Okay."

I could feel his eyes staring at me through two tiny slits in the white wraps, I could feel the heated anger he suddenly felt for me. His grip loosened from my arm and he pulled his fallen blanket back up on top of him.

"What's your name, comrade?" he continued.

My bottom lip was still trembling. "Toufexis. Andrei Toufexis.

The patient sighed. "I don't remember my name. The doctors keep trying to tell me it's Dimitri, but I don't believe them. I don't feel like a Dimitri, comrade."

"Then what do you feel like?"

"I feel like a bird. I feel like I have wings…" he choked back tears. "I see a very bright light comrade and I know it is not the sun." Dimitri looked at me and despite the gauss I could see the terror in his eyes. "Do you fear death Andrei? I don't. I fear God's judgment. The fact that my sins shall follow me wherever I go, even in Hell or Heaven."

He began to choke again and his head began to shake. I didn't know what to do, so I called for a doctor. Suddenly, Dimitri's entire body began to shutter and a red stain of blood spat out from within the bandages.

His body stopped shaking.

He stopped moving almost entirely.

The doctor came over and almost immediately pronounced him dead. He looked at me with a frown and took the cigarettes. The doctor then called for two orderlies and lifted the blanket up over Dimitri's face. The orderlies arrived and lifted his body up onto a gurney, then pushed it out of the tent and towards the graveyard to be buried.

I sat down on the bed and cried for a moment.

I stayed there for the rest of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

DECEMBER 25, 1942 – 9:00 P.M

I hope everyone has a nice Christmas.

DECEMBER 26, 1942 – 8:45 P.M

I leave for the front lines tomorrow, to be reunited with my brothers.

I find it sad that I am eager to get back and deal more death and destruction to the Germans that have attacked us. I continue to read the casualties list and every time I do my thirst for revenge grows stronger, so much so that my stomach often growls in pain. I've cried more in the past two weeks then I have in my entire life and I feel ashamed because of it.

The only other time I have felt shame was when I put a tack on my teacher's chair as a childish prank and he suffered from a cardiac arrest. He didn't die, but my conscience continued to pound on my soul for weeks afterward.

DECEMBER 27, 1942 – 11:00 P.M

I have left the hospital tent today for the line.

Ninel said her goodbyes in tears, but gave me a pair of her earrings as a token of our friendship.

I came to the hospital with little, so carry little on my back; a rifle, a backpack, a canteen, and a freshly pressed uniform was all that made up my kit. My boots tread hard on the snowy grass and I became addicted to the musical crunching sound it made under my feet. I wore the same hammer-and-sickle winter cap I had arrived with on my head, but it barely protected me from the cold winds.

A truck came to the graveyard; I asked where it was going.

The 13th Guards Rifle Division was somewhere along the Volga River, guarding the dozens of ships bearing US-funded supplies coming across the debris-ridden waters.

"I am headed towards the river, comrade. Why do you ask?"

"May I have a ride?"

The driver nodded. "Go in the back, but be careful, there is some ammunition in there that you wouldn't want tipping over."

I nodded, marched over to the back of the truck, and climbed in.

The ride was nice and quiet; the driver didn't speak and I didn't have any reason to start a conversation. He attempted to avoid any violence at every turn and, because of this, it took a little bit more than two hours to get near the Volga River. Once we arrived at the docks, I jumped out and, after asking several of the dockworkers, decided that my comrades were just a mile north of my current position.

I set off along the shore, my feet just barely within the reach of the river's vast waves.

It hadn't been long since I'd been on these beaches. The morning before my company's assault on the German fortifications in September, my division had been deployed from the opposite shore of the Volga River as a part of the major Red Army assault against the Germans. I can still remember the streak of light as the train doors opened and the sight of battle first crossed my visage. The Germans strafed us with their planes and fired on us with their machine guns perched high in the buildings atop a fortified hill.

That was the first time I met Nikita; a tall, gangly boy who was a new recruit at the time. He had been taking cover behind a tank obstacle and mortar fire was narrowing down on his position. Nikita was frozen; even when I called to him he didn't move. I jumped up from my own position, leaving Sokolov and Durasov to fend for themselves and pulled Nikita out of danger.

Belinski then came over and guided a shell-shocked Nikita down to help with the wounded so he was neither killed by the Germans nor deemed a traitor by his superiors and shot. Once this was done, I regrouped with Nevski and followed him up the hill with my men. In a matter of minutes, our forces swarmed over German defenses and were in the city streets. The Germans tried to abandon their posts in the buildings, but ran right into our advancing troops and a fierce hand-to-hand fight broke out.

I remember taking my rifle and breaking a man's skull open with it.

The water had yet to clean off what remained of that bloody day. I could see the rotting corpses stuffed in the sand; the smell was horrible. I kept going, though, speeding up my pace whenever I was near a body. This reduced the time it took for me to get to the division, which I could now see in the distance.

The majority of them were scattered across the beach, helping civilians unload the crates of weapons and ammunition being dropped off on the beach by small steamboats. Commissar Letlev, a familiar face, was standing atop the hood of a car with a notepad in his hand. Around him was a small crowd of troops, calling out their names. In the car sat General Badanov and Colonel Voronin, both with a bored expression on their faces.

I walked down to the car and approached Voronin.

After saluting both senior officers I said, "Sir, I am looking for Captain Elias Nevski's company. Might either of you know where they are?"

"Yes comrade," Voronin shifted in his seat and pointed towards a group of men standing around a set of armored halftracks a little ways up the beach. "What do you need them for, sergeant?"

I swallowed. "I just got back from the hospital, sir."

Badanov sighed. "Well, it is a good thing you are alright, comrade."

"Thank you, sir." I said and saluted both of them.

They saluted back and soon enough I was on my way. The first recognizable face I saw was Nevski's, but, upon spotting it, I quickly turned in the other direction. I continued on my way on the beach, searching for either Durasov or Alexei. I missed Durasov terribly, as I'd known him since even before the war had started. Having known Alexei for only a short while, I wasn't as anxious to see him as I was Durasov.

I stepped up onto a crate and scanned the beach for my friends.

"Andrei, is that you?"

I turned.

Behind me was a familiar face.

Durasov's smile stretched from ear to ear and his eyes lit up as he saw me. I noticed that, in contrast to his face, his uniform was in ruins; tears and rips made a home in his jacket, mud seemed to have been splashed on his pant legs, and his rifle was now old and rusty. Nevertheless, he was happy to see me and I was happy to see him. I stepped down from the crate and took his hand to shake. He gleefully took my hand and we shook for a moment. When the moment ended and we were done, I patted Durasov on the shoulder and asked him how he had been and what the company had been up to since I'd last seen them.

He said that they had managed to beat back the enemy troops easy enough, but had taken no prisoners during the ordeal. For the past couple of weeks, the division was assigned to oversee patrols near and around the Volga River, as well as help deliver supplies to friendly units once they were made available to transport and distribute.

And that was what the division was doing.

Once Durasov was finished speaking, he brought be over to where a group of men were sitting.

"Alexei!" he called. "Andrei Toufexis is back!"

One of the men looked up and stood. It was Sergeant Alexei. He came over to Durasov and me with a half-smile on his face and a cigarette in his hand. Alexei looked at me, shaking my hand.

"How are you doing, comrade?" he asked.

"Leg's a little stiff but I will be alright." I answered.

"Well, that's good."

"Yes well…"

My voice was suddenly drowned out by a loud whistling noise. Everyone stared up into the sky for a moment. It wasn't until someone eyed "MORTAR!" That anybody did anything. Everyone scattered; crates and weapons were dropped, men tripped over one another, and orders were quickly called out until…

BOOM!

The whistling ceased and a mortar round landed right behind the car where Voronin, Badanov, and Letlev were in. Letlev was sent flying off the hood, landing on his head and breaking his neck. Voronin and Badanov were saved by the metal of the car and quickly jumped out, sprinting across the beach towards the nearest cover. Soon, dozens more simultaneous whistling sounds erupted from the sky and landed abruptly on the beach.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

Sand, bodies, and supplies were sent flying into the air as mortar after mortar landed amongst our positions. I didn't move; both Durasov and Alexei had left me in favor of finding cover. I stared up into the sky—I wasn't looking for any incoming shells, but rather looking at the clouds as if they would be dispersed by the artillery. It was at that moment I felt a rough hand clamp down on my shoulder and push me down onto the ground. The sand sprayed into my eyes and mouth and I was blind.

Nevski yelled in my ear. "Get up, comrade, now!"

Elias grabbed both of my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. I still couldn't see and my ears were ringing as more shells plummeted down.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

"Can you see, Andrei?"

"No!"

"Alright," Nevski yelled. "Run as fast as you can, comrade. I will guide you to some place safe."

I didn't have time to answer, as Nevski wrapped his arm around my chest and pulled me forward. I moved my legs as fast as I could, but I was still unable to keep pace with the Captain. I don't know how long we ran or for how far, but when we did eventually stop, we were inside a building. Nevski sat me down on a wet and damp wooden chair. He then took off his gloves and rubbed my eyes until I could see.

I blinked twice and opened my eyes.

I was in a church, sitting before an altar. The war was not a friend of the church and had received several fatal blows due to this. Half a wall was missing and only a small portion of the ceiling remained, allowing the snow to fall onto the aisles of benches. Nevski sat down on the stage beside the altar, looking at me with his rifle on his lap. The sound of explosions continued outside and shook the foundations of the church.

"How are you feeling?"

I must have had a confused look on my face, because he continued. "How are your eyes doing? Can you see alright, comrade?"

I nodded. "Yes sir."

"Come on, Andrei. We were friends once; there is no need for formalities. Call me Elias, please, comrade. I have enough people calling me "sir" or "captain", and it makes me sick."

I shifted in my seat and wiped some of the sand off of my uniform. I looked at Nevski, who had drawn a knife and begun to clean its blade. I licked my upper lip and squinted. "What happened to you Elias? When we first met in Moscow you were a happy, fun-loving person. You were engaged to…to that girl. What made you like this?"

"They made me like this!" Nevski barked in a sudden burst of anger. "Hitler and his fascist dogs did this to me. The Germans made me how I am." Nevski hesitated for a long moment as he looked down at his feet and tears began to form up in his eyes. "They took everything from me; they killed my family, my fiancé…they killed my dog."

He was on the verge of sobbing now. Every word that escaped his lips was slightly muffled by a cry. "My beautiful Valentina…my father and mother…my little sister…all lined up and shot by the Germans. They took my dog outside and shot him. The only reason I stand before you today is because of Voronin, he found me before they killed me and slaughtered the fascists. He then offered me a choice: to get revenge on the people who killed my family or stay in Moscow and help rebuild our city after the German attack."

Nevski wiped his eyes. "I treat the Germans as they have treated me. When we get to Berlin—and I swear, by the end of this war, we will—no man, woman, or child will be safe from my vengeance. You may call my actions cruel. But if you were in my position, you would see them as justifiable. No, I do not have a lust for blood as you and your friends might have thought, but I will not spare any German I come into contact with."

I was shocked but kept a straight face.

I leaned in towards him. "I understand now why you have done what you have done, but you will answer for the death of Private Nikita…you will answer for the murder of those German POWs. I am sorry, my friend. The pain in your heart must be great, but know that mine is too when I say I am your enemy."

Nevski smirked and stared into my eyes. "This is the thanks I get for saving your wretched life?"

I frowned. "You knew what my answer would be. What did you think would happen? Did you believe everything would be forgiven? Nikita was a boy, not even old enough to buy a drink—and you killed him!"

Nevski stood. "Those POWs were but boys, yet I do not hear you defending their deaths!"

"I do defend them!"

I stood.

"Yet I show no aggression towards it."

"Why?"

"Because I know in my heart that one day you will rot in Hell and that for your sins you will be punished and their deaths will be justified."

"What about my family's deaths?"

"How long have you been in this war, Elias? How many men have you killed? You said it yourself that those Germans who killed your family had met their fate a long time ago. Your family's deaths have been justified ten times over. Killing innocent German soldiers will not give you any satisfaction; it will only add on to your punishment."

The sound of the mortar shells impacting ceased and I turned my back on Nevski. I didn't care if the attack was over, but I needed to get away from Elias before I took it too far. One of my friends was already dead because of this psycho, and I didn't need him to kill me. I expected Nevski to maybe take his knife and stab me in the back, but nothing happened. He allowed me to pass through the door and leave him in his misery. I quickly found Durasov and Alexei and together we found a nice place to rest on the beach.

It is from there, watching as the rest of the division disposes of the destruction left in the wake of the mortar attack, that I write this entry, reader. It is on this beach, amongst the debris, that I query: Who will be the one to survive this war, Nevski or myself?

It shall be determined by this war's end.


	6. Chapter 6

DECEMBER 28, 1942 – 9:00 P.M

A service was given to Commissar Pavelonva and the others who had died during the artillery attack yesterday. Instead of being buried, their bodies were loaded onto rowboats and dumped into the river. Colonel Voronin believed that this was a more convenient, yet honorable way to dispose of our comrades' bodies.

After the last man was cast into the river, General Badanov stepped up onto a stack of crates and ordered the men of the division to crowd around him. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Badanov began:

"I know most of you have just begun the first stages of mourning for your brothers, comrades. But, a few blocks away from here, dug in on a fortified hotel overlooking a wide courtyard, are the fascist pigs that committed this atrocity, comrades. We have already been given a chance for revenge. I know now that our strength is limited, but if we conquer this last obstacle, comrades, I promise you that you will not have to fight anymore."

There was no response, but you could tell the men were so badly beaten and below minimal morale that they were on the verge of mutiny. Badanov seemed to be aware of this and continued with his speech. "I understand you are tired, my friends. I understand you are weak and hungry. Despite the large amount of supplies coming from across the river, I know you are not ready to fight. We have all been fighting this battle a long time and I feel the same as you do. But I beg you to do this one last thing for me and I promise—I swear—that you will be brought off the line."

The men continued to look at Badanov with blank expressions.

Hesitantly, I stepped forward with my hat in my hand.

"What is your plan, sir?"

Badanov looked down at me for a long moment before cocking his head over to Voronin, who stepped forward.

"The Germans are dug in well inside a five story high hotel on the north end of a substantially large courtyard. They have machine guns on all levels, along with mortars and anti-tank explosive weaponry. Tank obstacles and land mines have made it impossible for any of our armor to assault their position, so Zhukov has decided to send in a division of infantry. We are those infantry, comrades. The plan is simple, however…a basic fire and maneuver."

Badanov interjected. "The Germans will have substantial fire over us, so we will combine machine gun teams with regular rifleman squads to create an advance consisting of firing, moving up to cover, covering the firing team, and moving. This maneuver shall be repeated over and over again until we reach the hotel and are able to assault their positions." He looked over to the company captains, who were standing in a straight line beside the car. "Captain Komarov's L Company and Lieutenant Bezrukov's B Company will spearhead the assault, with Captain Nevski's company following soon after and Captain Volkov's men providing fire from the rooftops of the rear buildings. Once we make it to the hotel, we will wait and regroup before going in. It is imperative that we take at least some prisoners, so do not fire at everything."

The General and Voronin looked at each other.

"Did I forget anything?" Badanov asked.

"No," Voronin said before looking out to the crowd of men. "Again, we regret having to send you in, comrades. We know we are asking a lot from you. But this is for Mother Russia. Will you not do anything in your power to keep her safe? We are so close to winning back Stalingrad. Let us finish what we have started."

With a wave of his hand, Badanov ordered for the men to disperse and prepare for the upcoming fight. I walked over with Durasov to an ammunition crate to help distribute weapons and ammunition to the others. A few minutes after being to do this, however, Colonel Voronin came over to us and ordered me to come over to the side with him. He waited till I was but a foot from him before reaching into his pocket and handing me a small silver star.

Confused, I took the star and looked up at Voronin.

"I am promoting you to Junior Lieutenant, Toufexis." Voronin said. "Hook that onto your shoulder insignia and report to Captain Nevski as his new executive officer."

Dumbfounded, all I managed to say was. "Sir, I…"

"Nevski hasn't been his usual self. He needs help. He needs you."

He gave me a small smile and patted me on the shoulder before walking away to talk with General Badanov. I smiled to myself and quickly stitched the star onto my sleeve insignia. I turned back to the ammunition crate and Durasov, walking back as if nothing had happened.

Durasov looked at me and said, "What did the colonel say, comrade?"

I shook my head and whispered, "Nothing."

DECEMBER 29, 1942 – 5:00 P.M

I am sorry if my tears smear the ink in which I am writing with.

It was in the early hours of the morning in which the 13th Guard Rifle Division set up offensive positions opposite of a highly-defended German hotel. Colonel Voronin had us line up in three rows with the machine gunners aimed down our rears.

This made it perfectly clear that there would be no retreat.

There were also five flag bearers; General Badanov believed that, by the end of the fighting, at least one of them would be alive to plant their flag atop the hotel's roof. Nevski's bodyguards stood at the helm of our advance in a tight circle around their captain, who carried around his neck a silver whistle. Durasov sat beside me, one of the five flags resting on his shoulder. I made sure that he had a weapon, so once given his flag, I took the sling from a rifle and wrapped it around Durasov's other shoulder, tightening it to a point where the weapon didn't bounce or move about when he ran.

I don't remember what happened next, but all I recall is hearing a whistle and running forward as fast as possible towards the hotel. The Germans didn't fire on us and we made it all the way to a thicket near the center of the courtyard. Nevski ordered us to halt and wait as Colonel Voronin and the machine gun teams regrouped with us.

Out of breath, Voronin began to give out orders. "Komarov and Bezrukov, you take your men and push towards the flanks of the hotel; Nevski, push forward to the front. Wait until Volkov's machine guns are in place before you charge."

"Yes colonel." said Komarov.

"Yes colonel." said Bezrukov.

"Yes sir." said Nevski.

My heart was pounding immensely and I was finding it hard to breath. I didn't understand why the Germans hadn't begun to fire on us, as we were the most vulnerable charging to this position. Maybe they hadn't heard us coming; maybe they didn't know we were here. Durasov looked at me for some form of guidance, yet I had none to give him. I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me that the Germans knew we were coming.

Volkov's men came and quickly set up their machine guns amongst the cover of the thicket. Ahead of us was a twenty yard strip of flat land with only a few tank obstacles scattered about. I was sure that there were mines hidden somewhere over there and that we would eventually run into them, but hoped that it would merely be a couple of machine gunners firing down on us. That was my biggest fear.

Stepping on a mine would be like signing a death warrant; nothing could save you.

Nevski turned towards me and the company. Using his hands to guide us from cover, he said, "Alright, comrades, let's move out. Tactical column: three by three with the flag bearer in front."

We all stepped out from the bushes and lined up in the formation Nevski wanted. His bodyguards formed around us as Nevski moved beside Durasov, who was obviously struggling with the flag. He didn't make any move to help the flag bearer, instead telling him to "hold fast" and not to stop once the Germans started firing on us. I was behind both of them, and as Nevski made Durasov even more nervous, my trigger finger began to twitch. I knew in my heart Elias needed to die, but I struggled to comprehend that the only thing that would kill him was a bullet fired from my own weapon.

But, before I could do anything, the man standing next to me fell from where he stood. Blood sprayed out and splattered across my face. I jumped and watched as a crimson puddle formed up around an ugly hole in the young man's cheek. Two men fell beside him, riddled with bullets, as I and the rest of my division scattered in all directions. I dove underneath a bench, looking on as dozens of men charged forward against a hard current of machine gun fire.

It was like a dance.

Durasov came up behind the bench, having abandoned his flag. He leaned down so we were face-to-face and he said, "Andrei! We've got to keep moving!"

I looked up to him, closed my eyes, and shook my head. I wasn't going out into the open; I wasn't going to die. Leave war to the military scholars. Leave war to the idealistic martyrs. Men like Nevski are like prostitutes to conflict, whoring themselves to bullets and blood and death. Durasov grabbed my shoulder and pulled me from underneath the bench, dragging me away to better cover. Once well situated behind a fountain, Durasov made sure I still had a weapon on me and left to help the others.

I understood why he abandoned me.

The Germans were shoving everything they had in our faces; men dropped like flies; explosions were dispensed like candy and the ground was peeled away as if it were an orange. From what I could see, there were three machine guns and from the trails of smoke there were two mortars. I could see the German flag perched up on the roof, skipping as the breeze blew around it. A couple enemy troops stood scattered about in front of the building, firing rifles and throwing grenades, but they soon retreated back to their comrades' positions as our forces surged even further.

I held my breath.

Cradling my rifle on my lap, I pulled back my sleeve and looked down at my watch, despising what I had to do next. But—despite the agonizing hope that I wouldn't have to do this—the second hand soon rotated from the third to the sixth tick mark in quick succession.

_Three seconds_, I thought sweat dripping from my forehead despite how cold it was.

_Two seconds_, I took the sling on my rifle and wrapped it over my shoulder.

_One second_. I leapt up from where I sat, turned towards the German positions, and fired a round from my rifle. Taking a deep breath, I charged head-on across the courtyard. Immediately—so quick that I wonder if they had been waiting for me—a dozen Germans opened fire on me. None of them were very accurate, so bullets rippled around me, looking like rocks skipping across the surface of a pond. I saw a mortar shell soar over my head, crashing down amongst a pack of my comrades behind me.

I saw Alexei.

He was with the rest of Nevski's bodyguards, crowding around their leader as he attempted to move down towards the German positions. He tried to shove them away, raising his sidearm and firing at the rooftops. I ran over to Alexei, ducking down as bricks were chipped and bushes were torn apart.

"Alexei," I said. "Cover me! I need to get to Captain Nevski!"

The sergeant turned towards me, but took a moment to process what I was saying. He then had a look on his face as if he were going to say something, but then…a bullet slammed into his ear, spiraling out through his shoulder. I caught him as he fell, cradling him as blood foamed up in his mouth and his eyes stopped blinking and glossed over. I had little time to mourn him, though, holding back any tears.

I rested Alexei's body on the ground before racing over to cover.

The battle raged all day. Once, there was a quiet period after the last man ran out of ammo; but the mortars never truly stopped firing down on us. They would fall down like a hail and the chorus of rifle fire rolled up and down the courtyard like the most incredible symphony. All day long, the medics raced back and forth, grabbing those wounded and stealing them from the field on their stretchers. We never retreated, but soon, after the Germans finally ran out of their mortar ammo and stopped firing their machine guns, we were ordered to form up into small groups and try to get some rest.

After a few hours, when the Germans had completely quieted down, Nevski came up and down the lines—his bodyguards following shortly behind—ordering all the men to stand up and load their weapons. I found Durasov, who was hurt in his shoulder and could barely stand on both feet. I told him about Alexei, but he didn't seem very affected by it.

"You're not upset?" I asked, lighting a cigarette.

He shrugged. "I barely knew the man. Did you expect me to get the reaction I had when Nikita, Sokolov, and Belinski had died? I'm upset; I'm just not falling to my knees and crying distraught."

I wanted to say how callous Durasov was, how coldhearted he was, for not caring about Alexei's death, but I couldn't blame him. It was sad that he was dead and he would be missed; that was why I almost cried, because death is sad and it is normal to feel pain, but I don't feel anything for him now. When I was in the moment—bullets spraying all about and people being killed—I couldn't handle it, but managed to keep calm.

I barely knew Alexei; though I met him over a week ago, I've only known him for one or two days, as I was in the hospital, apart from him, for the most of that time. So I wouldn't consider him a "brother in arms" or a comrade. He saved my life and I am grateful for that, but I doubt I shall remember his name should I live through this war.

I looked at Durasov for a moment before turning my head towards Nevski, who now stood ahead of us with a flag in one hand and a submachine gun in the other. He looked down at us all, cowering behind cover as he stood ready to charge once again at the enemy. We hadn't made much progress across the courtyard, because, as I looked out to the area in front of me, I saw a long stretch of shattered brick and stone, shredded grass, and mangled bushes. Bodies lay scattered across the mess and had already begun to attract bugs.

It was disgusting.

I gagged several times.

Turning back to look at the end of the courtyard with our machine guns, I saw Colonel Voronin talking into a radio with General Badanov behind him, barking at his inferiors to get ready. Mortarmen had been brought up and were in position and the machine gunners were ready to go.

I loaded my gun and swallowed.

Nevski waved his flag up and down in the air as a gesture for us to start moving. We kept low and scurried after him as he charged towards the hotel. His bodyguards pushed through us, creeping up close behind their leader. I motioned for my men to keep quiet, looking to Durasov, who was loading his weapon as he ran.

I gave him a thumb up.

He nodded.

One of Nevski's bodyguards motioned for us to pick up the pace.

My heart was pounding; I could barely breathe. My legs felt like they were about to fail and I wished I wasn't running. Durasov was beside me, his wounds hindering him from running any faster. We were both breathing heavily and I could see Durasov couldn't go for much longer.

Luckily, we made it all the way to the side of the hotel. Nevski quietly ordered everybody to pack up against the walls. He planted the flag in the ground and we waited while all remaining 30 men came around the entrance of the hotel. Nevski's bodyguards were the only ones not touching the wall, instead looking out to the courtyard in case of any enemy appearances. Nevski slung his weapon around his shoulder and grabbed the doorknob.

I heard Germans talking inside. Rushing up to Nevski, I laid a hand on the door and looked up at him. Before he could yell at me for getting in his way, I pleaded for him to listen, which he did.

But he didn't hear anything.

Nevski looked at me with a frown. "Step aside, Andrei, I will not have you or anyone else stand in the way of victory."

He pushed me aside and opened the door.

At the sight of Nevski's form towering above a group of armed Germans in the first room was a menacing sight, but he could do nothing as they raised their guns and fired.

"_Auf diese sowjetischen Bastarde feuern!_" one of them called.

I don't speak very well German, but from what I could understand, the man had said, "Fire at the Soviet bastards!"

Time slowed.

Nevski's body shook with every shot, but he did not fall backward. About one hundred bullets slammed into his body before he finally collapsed onto his knees and dropped his weapon. He looked down at his mangled body once before taking in one gasp of air and falling backward. Nevski's bodyguards poured into the room firing their weapons, with everyone but Durasov and I following suit.

My heart pounded even harder.

I dropped my rifle and went to Nevski's side.

Durasov standing behind me, I took the captain's hand. Through bloodied lips and breaking teeth, he brought me close and whispered, "Forgive me," before lowering his head back onto the ground.

And he died.

His body broken and his lungs punctured, all his breath escaped him in one final sigh. Though tears rolled down my cheeks, I felt no grief; I felt anger. My face felt hot and my nose flared. The Germans had caused so much death and pain and misery that I now realized that they deserved no mercy. I understood Nevski's debatable philosophy; when you are at war with someone and you show them no compassion, you will win.

I stood up and looked at Durasov.

He rested his hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry, comrade."

"What for?" I asked, shaking my head.

"You were his friend were you not?" he said with a confused tone.

"I was…with Elias Nevski. The man you see lying before you is nothing for than a shell. The real captain died a long time ago; he died after the Germans plagued us with their filth." I looked at him. "I hope this war never ends; I hope the Germans never surrender; I hope that I will go so far as marching all the way up to their Führer and be given the privilege of shooting him."

Durasov hesitated. "What are we going to do?"

"Leave him here," I said. "We still have a battle to fight."

We looked at each other for a moment, exchanging a brief glance before we walked into the hotel. We continued to climb all the way to the roof, where the rest of the men raised their fists and rifles and hats in victory as the German flag was cut from where it hung and drifted all the way down to the ground, covering Nevski's body completely.

How ironic.

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	7. Chapter 7

_AFTERWARD_

The battle of Stalingrad was a prolonged siege that wreaked terror upon Russian city from the 23rd of August, 1942, to the 2nd of February the next year. The defeat of the German Sixth Army in Stalingrad crippled the Führer Hitler's campaigns in the East and marked a turning point in the war. Over the years, the brutal fighting in Stalingrad became known as one of the bloodiest battles in modern history and has become a symbol of what some may call a Pyrrhic victory. Despite having quickly been beaten back through the city during the opening moves of the battle, in a matter of two months, from late November to the end of January in 1943, the Russians managed kill a quarter of a million German troops, destroy a thousand German tanks, eighteen hundred pieces of artillery, an entire fleet of transport planes, and untold numbers of military supplies.

Though taken off the line for months to come, the battle of Stalingrad lasted until February and the 13th Guards Rifle Division, of the Soviet Red Army, continued to fight in Ukraine, where they sustained heavy casualties during their assault on a small island situated in the center of the Rhine River. What was left of the division then aided the drive into Germany until they were relieved and put in reserve during the Battle of Berlin.

Approximately 5 out 6 of the 13th's enlisted men were killed during the war.

Approximately 3 out of 5 officers were killed.

Colonel Lev Voronin; commanding officer of the 13th, of Moscow, Russia, received the Gold Star for his actions during the Liberation Ukraine in the autumn of 1943. After the war, he remained in the army, supporting the Soviet Union on battlefields such as Korea (1950-1953) and Vietnam (1959-1975), the latter where he received the Order of the Red Star for his actions in Cambodia.

He retired in 1976 as a Lieutenant General. He then became an ice hockey coach in the 1980s, but died of natural causes in 1999.

Private Durasov; rifleman of the 13th Guards Rifle Division, of St. Petersburg, Russia, was crippled during the push on Berlin in 1945, after being hit by a mortar fire. He recuperated in Moscow, but was transferred to a medical base on the Ukrainian border. After the war, he was discharged from the Red Army and fled to France from the un-fortified borders of Ukraine. He married a German woman and they had two children. He became a carpenter in 1956. He died in 2002.

Lieutenant Andrei Toufexis; platoon leader of the 13th Guards Rifle Division, of Stalingrad, Russia, fled to America with his family in 1945. He married in 1947 and had 3 children; 2 of which would fight in Vietnam; one would die in the Battle of La Drang and the other earned a Bronze Star for his actions in Hue.

He became an employee at the Tamarack Mine near Lake Superior. After much hard work, he earned his proprietor's trust and was promoted to supervisor, before being given management over a smaller mine just south of Tamarack. He moved from Minnesota to North Carolina in 1975. In late 1980, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease and, fortunately, he never remembered what he had been made to suffer during the Second Great War.

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